


Quite Done In

by mistyzeo



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-15
Updated: 2011-01-15
Packaged: 2017-10-15 04:03:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/156862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mistyzeo/pseuds/mistyzeo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This one's a fill for the <a href="http://community.livejournal.com/shkinkmeme/profile"><img/></a><a href="http://community.livejournal.com/shkinkmeme/"><b>shkinkmeme</b></a>.</p><p>The <a href="http://community.livejournal.com/shkinkmeme/4456.html?thread=5376104#t5376104">prompt</a>: <i>Can we have Holmes and Watson very early in a relationship and Watson turning Holmes into a gibbering mess from giving him a blowjob for the first time?</i></p><p><i>Bonus points if Holmes is skeptical that people could find such a thing pleasurable, so Watson demonstrates otherwise.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Quite Done In

“Oh, you needn't do that,” Holmes said, most unexpectedly, as I applied my mouth to the cut of his hip and had begun to nudge his thighs apart. I paused, confused, with one hand on his knee and the other tucked against his ribs, and lifted my head.

“What?” I was scrunched rather far down the bed, my knees against the foot board, and I had little doubt that either of us was not aware of what I intended to do next. We had not been involved for very long, a few weeks perhaps, and so far our encounters had been limited to desperate, furtive kisses and rather unrefined manual mutual pleasure. Now Mrs. Hudson was out for the evening– Holmes's doing, I suspected– and we had a silent house and a few hours to ourselves. I planned to make the most of it.

“Your hand will do nicely,” Holmes said, sounding bored but looking rather pink, and I narrowed my eyes. I was not about to be deterred from my goal, not with him laid out on his bed stark naked, my fingers curled around his cock and my mouth watering at the thought of tasting him.

“Ah,” I said, “no. I had something else in mind, if you do not object.” I gave him a pointed look, squeezed my fingers around his erection, and licked my lower lip. He blushed a little harder.

“It just isn't necessary, Watson,” he said, evidently trying to sound reasonable.

I decided bluntness was the best tactic. “But I want to.”

“I don't see how you or I could find any enjoyment in– in that.”

I admit I stared at him rather rudely. “You don't see–? I– Holmes, I don't even know what to say. You are quite incorrect, as it happens. It appears I have discovered another one of your limits.” I grinned, referring to the list I had made and he had found, but he did not seem to be particularly amused.

“Watson,” he said again, exasperated, and I shook my head.

“No, Holmes,” I said, “you'll have to give in to me on this one.”

He sighed, long-sufferingly, and dropped his head back onto the pillow. Now I was determined to show him how wrong he was, how much he'd been missing without me to guide him. Holmes, while not particularly verbose, never lost his expansive vocabulary in the throes of passion, and now I intended to rid him of it.

I shifted to get more comfortable, settling myself between his legs so that I had all the room I pleased. I let my fingers trail up and down the hollows of his hips– I needed to convince him to eat more, I decided absently– while his cock lay stiff against his belly. I ran my fingertip down the length of it, feeling it twitch under my ministrations, and lowered my head. I put my mouth to the base of his prick, the curls of his pubic hair soft under my lips, and licked a long stripe in the direction my finger had come.

Holmes said, “Oh,” sounding surprised. I wanted more than that.

I curled my right hand around his prick and raised it to my mouth, pushing up on my elbows so that I might slide my tongue around the tip. A bead of fluid had gathered there, salty and slippery, and Holmes made another startled noise that sounded a little like my name. I licked him again, reveling in the feel, the heat, of his cockhead under my tongue, and saw out of the corner of my eye his long fingers clenching in the blankets on either side of him.

I spent a few long moments just licking him like that, sliding my tongue against the ridge of the glans, licking the moisture from his slit, suckling softly at the underside, while he tried to stifle his moans. I glanced up, and his eyes were closed, his face creased in effort, or pleasure, or both. His lips moved silently, his chest rose and fell quickly, and I knew I was on my track.

Now I slid the head of his cock against the roof of my mouth as I took him in, my lips closing around the shaft, and he drew in a great breath and held it. I reached up with my unoccupied hand and tapped the center of his chest, and he let the breath out on a sigh. With the same hand I then took hold of one of his and brought it deliberately so it rested on the back of my head. At the same time I continued to suck him down, his head now nearly touching the back of my throat, my jaw stretched wide, and he was the one who choked.

“That is– that–“ he said, struggling to compose himself, “that is quite good. I didn't expect–“

I swallowed around him, and his utterance dissolved on a moan.

“Oh, John,” I heard him murmur, his fingers curling in my hair. I smiled, as well as I might, and drew away slowly, letting my tongue linger along the underside of his shaft. He was breathing more quickly, gasping quietly, and I took him in again, quickly, and over and over, until he was grasping at my hair.

“You–“ he said, “You– good God!”

It was most gratifying, I will admit. My own prick was hard in my trousers, hot against my thigh, but I could ignore it for now. My mouth was full of his cock, my nose full of his scent, my hands full of his perfect arse. I let him go for a moment and licked the full weight of his sac, cradling it with my tongue, and he spread his knees apart and sobbed. Amused and pleased, thrumming with the power I had over him now, I continued to lick him there, and he clenched his hand in my hair and pressed me more firmly against him, moaning.

I ran my hands up his sides, stroking his lean flanks, and he shuddered, pushing his hips against my mouth. He hissed, “Please, John, please,” and I obliged, sliding my tongue to the wet head of his cock again and slipping it between my lips. He thrust immediately, shoving himself into my mouth, humping desperately into the air. I relaxed and hung on, encouraging him, hollowing my cheeks and letting him fuck me.

He was desperate by now, panting and groaning, wound up so tight I could feel the tension in his arms as they gripped my hair and the bedclothes. His abdomen was quivering, the muscles rolling as he flexed his hips, and I couldn't help my own moan. Now he had the power, and he was using it, using me, abusing my mouth for his pleasure. My throat was sore and my lips felt numb, and I wanted him to come. I wanted it so badly, and I squeezed my eyes shut in a desperate bid for patience.

He pushed me away, suddenly, his cock slapping against his belly and his breathing harsh. I coughed once and looked up at him, and his eyes were dark and wild.

“What's wrong?” I rasped.

“I don't–“ he slurred, “I can't ask you to–“

“Ask me,” I replied, and took him back into my mouth. He cried out, wordless, throbbing between my lips, and I took the rest of him in hand. My shoulder ached at the position, but I cupped his stones in my hand and squeezed my fist around his length, and he fairly shouted.

I felt him swell in my hand, cock growing stiffer and harder in the moments before orgasm, and the noises he made were perfection. Every breath was a groan, faster and higher, and then he went altogether silent as his cock began to pulse. My mouth was flooded with his taste, thick and bitter and perfect, and he moaned helplessly as I swallowed around him.

He came down slowly, gasping, his hand going lax in my hair and his whole body falling limp. He had arched up in the last moment, back bowed, and he slumped against the bedclothes again with a sigh. I let him slip from my mouth and pushed myself up to kneel between his spread thighs. His cock lay flushed and fat against his stomach, and my own throbbed heavily in my drawers.

“John,” he said finally, weak and almost reverent. “You are quite done in.”

“Quite,” I said, undoing my flies and taking myself in hand. The sight and sound and smell and taste of him had overwhelmed me, and I was a few scant strokes from my own peak. His hand joined mine, his chest still heaving, and I spent myself across his belly with a groan.

“I owe you an apology,” he said later, when we were clean and curled naked together under his quilt.

“What for?” I asked, my mouth against his bare shoulder. “I wanted you to– well, you know.” Now, outside the wildness of lust, I was embarrassed to say it.

“No, no,” he said, “not for that. I quite enjoyed that particular part. I simply meant that you were right and I was wrong.”

I lifted my head, once again surprised at his words.

He smiled, languidly, and brushed a hand through my hair. “I shall never know your limits.”


End file.
